


is this what resurrection feels like

by nightofdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Dysphoria, Gore, Loss of Identity, Love/Hate, Manipulation, Mindfuck, Mutilation, Nobody hates chuck more than him, Not everything is in tags, Self-Harm, When Your in a Love/Hate Relationship with Your God, but it's ok bc god isn't human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22406683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: He loves them, owns them, they are his. He hates them. Hates them so much he circles back around to loving them again. Loving the Winchesters' is an amputation - necessary but painful. It is a painful dying star resisting it's own necessary end.He makes amputations - necessary and brutal to his own being in order to go on and care for them. Only to happy to brutalize himself for them. It is necessary.
Relationships: Becky Rosen/Chuck Shurley, Jack Kline & Chuck Shurley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	is this what resurrection feels like

**Author's Note:**

> warning for some really heavy stuff that happens in this such as: suicidal ideation (i.e. my man really wants the literal sweet embrace of death), depression big times, Very unhealthy obsession with sam and dean, identity stuff, gore like whoa and other stuff. feel free to leave a comment if i forgot a tag. basically read at own risk.

_Remember...humans burn bright but briefly..._

It is an awe-fully long time - eons, he thinks - before the emptiness inside of him yawns, hungry after so many years. He was not always empty recalling that fact, can't precisely remember what events precipitated the state he now occupies. 

There are few things to do now that Paradise has been ushered in, the balance of all things, the machinery of the universe re-established to his specifications. Those first millennia had been prosperous, a golden age of gods, of perfect harmony. Now it was quiet, humans moved on, dotting the outer worlds of space. He felt...pride, at humanities accomplishments, their innovation.

Yet, he also felt empty.

Tries to reach back to that time once again to when he didn't feel hollow, instead to when he was whole. A pin-prick pocket sized memory locked away - now, why would he do that - opens up and he is flooded with warmth, _love_ , and such overwhelming crushing nostalgia, reaching back billions upon billions of years that he nearly loses control.

... _and beings like us...must let them go..._

He isn't thinking about that when he breaks the one rule he swore to follow. He isn't thinking when he creates another universe, twisting the laws of nature to his selfish whim, isn't thinking when he attempts to create flesh and blood and soul.

And fails. It doesn't stop him, existing for eons had given him a certain patience for trial and error. He waited, let nature take its course, arranged the planets and comets in the right order and sequence and let gravity do its job. Let time smooth the rough edges, watched and watched, as his new universe grew and grew, expanding.

It didn't always work, something would break along the way, some unaccounted-for variable and everything would come crashing down. Slight differences that only he could see, and he'd have to abandon it again.

And again and again and again.

When there was a lull in his work, he sometimes thought he was doing exactly what he said he wouldn't. That he was becoming the monster that the humans he was working tirelessly to replicate had always feared. The monster they tricked into a cage, tattoo, the difference was minimal. This what he was doing, was different, he knew that, deeply within himself.

It was necessary.

After 343 tries he gets it right, at least the Earth is perfect. He begins human trials, it is disastrous.

The human soul was not so simple as it appeared. His first creations are evil - insomuch as a concept of evil could exist in a world not populated by humans- he knows that. He tries as hard as he can anyway to fix them, but their insatiable hunger, and near base instinct to kill persists.

Feeling a shame and embarrassment that only the presence of humans could incite in him - he created a world, a mercy he reasoned, and placed all the failed humans there.

And he tried again and again and again.

Several million years pass, discarded universes left in various states of evolution littered the multi-verse. Many uninhabitable, overrun with monsters, failures.

There was no one he could talk to in his exile on the edges of the multi-verse. No one to get him to stop, to think about the atrocities he was creating, his failures he called them. He simply could not stop until he has done what his predecessor had done.

It now becoming something of a challenge to him. He would create life, make humans, make the Earth. He would be better than his insane predecessor, he promised. He would do this and step away, like he'd done already for eons.

... _live for a long time... so we must appreciate them while they are here on earth ..._

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he sees life begin to form on the Earth. Doesn't remember how long he has labored over his project to make humans until he feels that bright spark of life spring into existence. That memory nearly faded shines in full color, that memory of what human souls looked like shining in their prime. Human life begins anew on Earth and he watches in fascination as they grow and prosper and live in paradise.

It's all _wrong._

He tries again and again and again. It was not as his predecessor wrote, he realized, he had to get it right. Or else they wouldn't love him. So now with the formula of human life he begins anew, this time as life forms in the ether, he creates celestial life. Gathered from the remains of his last attempt at humanity, the scrapped souls from the bottom of the heap, he creates Archangels.

He weaves a prophecy of the fall of humanity, showers love on Lucifer and neglects Michael, Gabriel and completely forgets Raphael. Humans evolve right on schedule, more angels are molded to his specifications, saving Castiel for last. Watches Lilith fall in her insubordination and lust for Lucifer, she is beautiful and radiant, human. Lucifer was the most beautiful of his children after all. A perfect reflection of himself.

He let a decade pass before making Eve out of a man, let one of the Archangels warn her about eating the apple, watched as the snake tempted her, watched as she bit into that apple, juices flowing down the sides of her mouth.

Watched as humanity fell, just as planned, expected, as it was writ.

It had to happen. It was necessary.

The rest was history. He watched again and again and again and again and again. Free will he thought was becoming bothersome. He would need to be more hands on from now on.

He let humanity fall and showed his precious humans, so fragile, what would happen if they disobeyed him the one and only God. They had to believe in him, in his omniscience, in his power, he couldn't threaten damnation and not follow through. Couldn't' threaten plagues and hellfire and not do it. 

Once again, he told himself it had to be done. If he didn’t love them so much he wouldn’t.

In return he gave them rules to live by, words of wisdom, for he was all knowing. Prayers and invocations to him, when they felt scared and helpless.

He watched and watched as their fear grew and in tandem so did their worship. He had to do this he reasoned to make them love him, he told himself. I had to because I love you.

It was mercy.

_...you have to understand...beings like us...._

So, so much time passes. He is tired, many of his worlds have failed, he has gotten close but not perfect. His children have died fear filled deaths. Still he pushes on and on and on, he has to make it right. Love like a knife point to his chest.

This time his will shall be done. He conducts his angels to manipulate the flow of time, to make sure two boys are born. They ask why, he says they will be important, the Winchester Gospels will reveal the truth. He tells the angels, tells his favorites, about the end. Lucifer is already in the cage now - but he already knows - tells them of the seals, Lilith, and Azazel's manipulations, everything.

His prophecies stop there. It is time, he leaves the Empryean. Satisfied the angels are prepared to take on the future.

For years he lays in the abandoned temples of forgotten gods, sleeping, resting regaining his strength. Listening and observing all the while for the slightest deviance from plan. All goes well, as he hears the chorus in Heaven.

 _Dean Winchester is born_.

It is done, but it was only half the work. He watches as Dean is born, watches as Sam is born and they live a normal life.

Something is _wrong._

He begins again and again and again.

In the beginning he tells Lilith of the fabled Winchesters, tells her of the end, whispers in undertones of how Lucifer will not be freed until 66 seals are broken in the future. Tells her with a twist in the gut that she is the last of them, that she must die to free Lucifer. It is cruel he thinks, to seal, trap her like this but she will have time to forgive him.

Lilith is smart, it is not even a millennium before she figures out the big picture. Lilith masterminds Azazel and his family and the manipulation of Mary Winchester’s deal. It is…almost delightful, the way Azazel traps Mary in her deal.

There is still more to do, key elements of the story. Thematic arcs, concepts that must be woven into the story. More subtle things, nudges in the right direction. A sense of fear, and betrayal, and dread of what’s to come needs to be added along with the obvious.

As he’s writing the Winchester Gospels he wonders where his predecessor got the ideas, the original formula. He’s had to work so hard to make it work up till now.

_…can’t decide if you’re the chicken or the snake…_

Years into his writing he realizes it’s time and that it all needs to be the same. Just as it was before. He’s strived for perfection this whole time - why change it now – and with an immense amount of disgust, self-hatred, and anticipation he changes his form.

As if he is a snake shedding its skin, becoming the snake. A deep-seated hate rises in him as he becomes the monster he swore not to become. Manipulating his loved ones, bringing them back from the dead, doesn’t dwell on that for long. He shoves it deep down, stuffs it in a place far away. Where it can’t be glimpsed.

He reminds himself he’s doing this because he must, because he loves them, loves humanity. Loved humanity so much that he brought them back in their glory – _but you sent Dean to Hell, tortured him_ , a nasty voice echoes, it is quickly stamped down.

There is a knock at his door.

All he can do is stare as the two most beautiful souls stand there – they say something, but he doesn’t hear a word – and he slams the door closed. They aren’t supposed to be here! Not now at least.

Opens the door again and lets them in and realizes the first time in years that people can see him, see the shoddy house. That he is being seen, perceived, the Winchester’s are forming opinions about his state, the unshaven face, messed up hair – why would he want to take care of such a contemptible form – and house in disarray. Papers everywhere, food, and beer strewn everywhere.

He suddenly wants to disappear, to end it now. That this was an awful idea, to return to the past, but the look Sam gives him as he self-deprecates – God, the truth, spoken plainly felt amazing – that reassuring look. If there was a Heaven for beings like him, he thought, but perhaps he only deserved hell.

He directs them toward Lilith, tells them of their fiery passion in bed. Knows it won’t happen. He kills Castiel, knows it will not be the first time.

The euphoria from the first meeting carries him for months.

He contacts Becky out of selfish reasons. He could have delivered the message to Sam, but to know there was someone out there who loved Sam as much as him…was gratifying. So, when they have sex and he hears, Becky moan Sam’s name he doesn’t think much of it. They both wanted to the same thing in the end, Sam happy. To love Sam or Sam to love them.

The Apocalypse was not supposed to happen. Sam was not supposed to say _yes_ to Satan. Not like this.

He stays in the failed universe, devasted at the failure, he’d been so close. He’s certain he stays to punish himself, and partially to blame Dean. Certain that he was what went wrong. He _needed to change._

Tries again and again and again. Zachariah is his key, and a vision from the future. Dean is enlightened and gives up, but not before a replacement is found. Everything falls into place, no more failures he reassures himself.

Sam says _yes_ but resists Satan and his memories of the Impala and his brother give him strength to fight back. They defeat God.

He has won.

He watches and watches and watches. He watches from Athens, Greece specifically the Parthenon, cats circle his legs purring and sunbathing out in the open warm rock. Wonders if this will be all that’s left of his reign on some outer world, a pile of rocks and cats.

Makes himself home, tries to relax everything will be done. The groundwork has been set, nothing else can change he assures himself. Which was exactly right, nothing happened.

Of course, he remembered, a betrayal so deceitful it shaped the entire cosmology of the universe. It takes time he thought he didn’t have, but he locks Amara away, rewriting history, his entire being.

He waits in the sunlight of the Parthenon, Cain walking the Earth cursed with the Mark. Amara locked waiting to emerge – billions of years for them both, he doesn’t know who it cut deeper – to kill him, then forgive.

_…you must understand humans…aren’t like you and me…beings like us_

Words spoken so long ago he couldn’t even remember who spoke them or why. Now they were just words, reminding him of something he could hardly believe or do. To let go of the Winchesters.

The thought sent sickening shivers down his being, it was impossible, he _loved them._ They were _his._ Lilith’s curled lip appeared, “ _You’re obsessed.”_

He denied the accusation, so bold so Lilith he could hardly raise a hand at her.

“ _You love them.”_

 _"_ _Yes.”_

_“You hate them.”_

_“Yes.”_ He had to otherwise how could he do any of this.

It was obsession though; he owned every part of their lives. Inside and out. Watching through eyes, lips, skin, touch, Every part of their being. It was difficult to not start hating when you know someone so well. Loved them so much.

When he regularly took them apart, elbow deep in crimson red organs, searching for the tiniest molecule of anything. Taking apart, scalpel in hand, cutting and rearranging body parts, making the perfect human to design specifications. Sculpting, molding, chiseling so that one day they could withstand the divine glory of Lucifer and Michael. So that their bodies wouldn’t be destroyed by the Angel’s ionizing radiation, they were resistant to cancers of all kind.

They should thank him for the hard work he put in.

The Parthenon offered comfort in that he could feel the ghosts of the gods that were once worshipped there. Scent the blood mixed in the sculpted marble, centuries old, but it still held some power. An ancient power that dwelled in the Earth, that humans could sense if they stood still long enough and listened.

One day the Winchesters would listen and feel the hours of work he put into their bodies and scream in pain and terror.

Something snapped in the fabric of the universe. A shaking so profound that he could feel it in the molten core of his being, digging in. He immediately transferred himself off the Earth, into God’s so-called bar.

If everything didn’t go exactly right, he could die.

He reveals himself to the Winchester’s – he reveals Chuck – to them. That name on his lips slicing away at this self, he is Chuck, he is God, he cannot bare to think it. Concept of self so twisted upon each disguise – with each world – he has forgotten how to be himself. Hasn’t been himself in billions upon billions of years.

This he thinks is his genesis. This moment – watches as Amara exorcises Lucifer from Castiel – is his becoming. Still cannot tell if he is snake or the chicken, killing to protect what he loves. Or killing out of need, pure pleasure.

_…older, younger, chicken and the egg...neither of us can remember anymore…God will die Dean…_

He is so very tired. Amara follows him to the end of everything, she forgives him, _understands._ He does too, understands why his predecessor had done what he had done. Somethings were necessary.

Amara is powerful, he observes as she effortlessly creates what took him seven thousand tries. Her creations are unique, alien to anything he ever thought of, but he had been driven by need, a singular goal. Amara is driven by the need to explore, to feel, to know.

Eventually they return to Earth, after years of creation - after Amara’s creations formed governments and fought wars – bored, the interesting parts over with. They return and a most familiar presence is awaiting them. Amara’s beautifully crafted face watches his own – neglected, pale, hated face – in curiosity.

 _“What is it about them you like, brother?”_ She asks, hooded eyes devouring - seeing more than he ever could - stripping away his disguises. He is disgusted, his disguises no longer work.

 _“I hate them.”_ He hears Lilith’s voice, haunting and melodic, asking him why he cared about the Winchesters’ and getting the answer she wanted and what he now forced himself to believe.

Amara’s mouth quirks up, elegant fingers dip into a bowl full of fruit, delicately she eats a handful of grapes, one by one.

_"I don’t believe you.”_

There was no easy answer. Amara was his twin in every sense of the word, she would know if he lied. The twisted tale would reveal itself.

_“I love them. They are mine.”_

“ _And you are there’s, they love you.”_

They own you, she doesn't say.

If loving someone was like owning someone, he supposed yes. It was easy to claim ownership at his vantage point, the Winchester’s were all that ever mattered in the world. He had betrayed Amara in the name of love, caused suffering on Earth for it, done so many vulgar things to the Winchesters for love.

He was sick with loving, cutting parts from himself to cure the disease. Putting the hunger in Purgatory, the yearning and pain in Hell, the obedience and naivety in Heaven. He sliced and carved until he could no longer recognize himself until he had a face, a persona that the Winchester’s could come to hate. One he could loathe; knew he could hate.

_…Sam, Dean…we need your help…_

He left Amara enjoying keno in Reno, knew she would be fine, fine without him. Found Castiel, attempting to enter Hell to inspect the cage, felt the oppressive spell laid over the planet by the…by _him._

The name like poison on his tongue now, refusing to speak it. To achieve this dream, he had shed his former self, become the snake stuffed full greedily devouring eggs. He was here to complete the transformation, his metamorphosis.

Elation filled his belly as he presented the gun, the _Equalizer_ to the Winchesters, they did not understand. That with the gun – it was gun shaped – but when you fashion two Hunters that speak the language of violence you must reciprocate. They didn’t understand it would end it all – finally – blissfully. That they would have peace.

He would have peace.

He smiled, grinned as he suggested the name _Hammurabi,_ just as poignant he thought. Poetical even – it would be cinematic – he thought, stomach curling in delight at such an end. Closing the wretched loop, mirroring his predecessors famous Abraham and Isaac.

Oh, what beauty in terror looking up to Dean Winchester, complete understanding and such innocence in his expression. A lamb to the slaughter, sacrifice to _him. Please, he thought, end it all. End it, end it, now. Now._

 _He thinks he might be going insane._ Fear, delight, ecstasy, the end is coming. The mere thought of being reaped of seeing bare darkness Nothingness fills him with delight.

Why was he doing this again? Love. Hate.

Sam Winchester wants to know where he’s been, why he hasn’t helped, he can barely get himself to listen. For the love of all things, he’s at his rope, barely sane. He gives noncommittal replies, stalls, waits for the end. Or was it the beginning.

Sam rushes out pissed off.

Dean is practically pulling the trigger in his mind and there is nothing he can do to change it. He doesn’t pull the trigger, and everything falls apart.

He falls apart – Chuck falls apart.

The gun lays inert – a useless literary device – and it won’t move again unless someone picks it up. Jack stands there naïve, knowing nothing – he _must_ change – become.

_… not sure if you’re the chicken or the snake…_

In the space of seconds, he sees what he’s become – the enormous rift between Jack and Chuck. And he wants to scream, a primal howl rises in his throat, but he can’t let it out, not now. Clearly sees the monster he’s become, the hollow shell he occupies, the amputations he’s made to himself. The wounds on his being he’s cauterized open weeping. He is disgusting.

Chuck knows what he must do – the Winchester’s have made him do it – this has always been about them. Always will be.

One last mutilation of the body is nothing, he is of course happy to die for the Winchesters. He rips and tears and destroys Jack’s Grace, it is not easy, but he knows its workings intimately.

It of course used to be his.

When it’s done, he steps back, feeling hollower than ever. He looks up, Sam has the gun pointed at him, “Hey, Chuck!”

He hadn’t known what the gun would do but the intent had been mutually assured destruction. He feels _something_ lodge in him, and it slithers and squirms inside him, the sensation is sickening. It turns his stomach, blocks all thought. Dean shouts something obscene that sounds like an order to go to Hell.

He is all too happy to oblige.

He immediately leaves - thinks he accidently turned day to night in his haste - and vomits violently.

Wipes bile from his mouth and lays his head on the cool grass, has no idea where he is, doesn’t bother to _think._ Doesn’t even _care._

He’s done it, he’s back, the Winchester’s are back. And they are _his_ , perfect and bright. Nothing else matters.


End file.
